Cancer Took My Voice Box, But Not My Message

— The first time I tried to speak through the prosthetic voice, I cried. Not because it hurt. Not because I was grateful. But because I didn’t recognize the sound coming out of my own mouth. That robotic, mechanical voice—that was me now. Forever. Throat cancer took my larynx. My voice box. The ability to speak the way I had for 50-something years. Gone. But I’m still here. And I still have something to say.

**What It’s Like**

People ask me all the time: “What’s it like to speak through a prosthesis?” Honest answer? It’s weird. Even after all this time. Every time I talk, I’m reminded that I’m different. That something was taken from me. That my body had to be rebuilt just so I could communicate. The voice doesn’t sound natural. It doesn’t have the warmth or inflection of a human voice. When I laugh, it doesn’t sound like laughter. When I’m sad, you can’t hear it in my tone. It’s mechanical. Clinical. Robotic. And it’s mine.

**The Daily Reality**

Here’s what people don’t understand about living with a prosthetic voice:

**Every conversation is work.**

What used to be automatic—speaking—now requires conscious effort. I have to think about how I’m forming words. I have to manage the device. I have to make sure people can understand me.

**People stare.**

Not always. Not meanly. But they do. When they hear the mechanical voice, they look. They try to figure out what’s different. Some are curious. Some are uncomfortable. Some pretend they don’t notice.

**I get tired.**

Speaking takes more energy than it used to. Long conversations exhaust me in ways that don’t make sense to people with their natural voices.

**Technology fails.**

The prosthesis isn’t perfect. Sometimes it malfunctions. Sometimes it needs adjustment. Sometimes it just doesn’t work right, and I’m stuck unable to communicate clearly.

**I miss my old voice.**

I didn’t even like my voice before. But it was mine. And now it’s gone.

**The Questions I Get**

“Does it hurt?” No. The prosthesis doesn’t cause pain. But the loss? That hurts. “Can you sing?” Not really. Not the way I used to. Music was taken along with my voice box. “Will you ever sound normal again?” This is my normal now. “Do you regret the surgery?” What kind of question is that? It was cancer. The choice was speak through a device or die. I chose life.

**What Cancer Teaches You**

Cancer is a thief. It took my voice box. It took my lung capacity. It took years of my life to treatment and recovery. It took my sense of security—because now I know that my body can betray me. But cancer also taught me things I wouldn’t have learned any other way.

**It taught me what really matters.**

Not the sound of my voice, but what I say with it.

**It taught me resilience.**

I survived something that kills people. Twice.

**It taught me to stop taking things for granted.**

Every day I can speak—even through a machine—is a gift.

**It taught me that people remember your message, not your voice.**

**The Second Time**

Lung cancer came later. By then, I knew the drill. The fear. The treatment. The uncertainty. The wondering if this time you won’t make it. The second cancer was different because I’d already lost so much. What else could be taken? Turns out, there’s always more to lose. And there’s always more to fight for. I fought. I survived. Again. Now I’m a two-time cancer survivor. Not because I’m special or strong. Because I’m stubborn. Because I refuse to let cancer write the ending to my story.

**Living As a Medical Patchwork**

My body is a collection of replacement parts and scars: – Prosthetic voice box – Two replaced hips – Hearing aids in both ears – Glasses to see – Lungs that don’t work as well as they should – A body that’s been cut open and stitched back together more times than I can count I joke sometimes that I’m more machine than man now. Like some low-budget cyborg. But the truth is, every replacement part, every adaptation, every accommodation is proof that I’m still here. Still fighting. Still refusing to quit.

**The Message Cancer Couldn’t Take**

Here’s what cancer didn’t understand: My voice was never in my larynx. My message was never about how I sounded. Cancer took the mechanism. But it didn’t touch the mission. I speak for people who feel voiceless. People who’ve been broken by addiction, by disease, by life. People who think they’re too far gone, too damaged, too broken. That message doesn’t need a perfect voice. It just needs to be heard. And whether I’m speaking through a prosthesis or typing on a keyboard, the message is the same:

**You’re not done yet. Your story isn’t over. Keep going.**

**What I Want You to Know**

If you’re facing cancer right now, or if you’re living with a disability, or if your body has betrayed you in some way:

**You’re more than what was taken.**

Cancer, disease, injury—they can take a lot. But they can’t take who you are.

**Adaptation is strength.**

Learning to live differently isn’t weakness. It’s survival.

**You don’t have to be inspirational.**

You just have to keep breathing. That’s enough.

**People will ask stupid questions.**

Forgive them. Most people mean well, even when they say the wrong thing.

**Your value isn’t in your abilities.**

It’s in your existence. You matter because you’re here, not because of what you can or can’t do.

**The Voice That Matters**

My voice is mechanical now. Artificial. Not what I was born with. But it works. And through this mechanical voice, I can still tell my story. I can still encourage someone who’s struggling. I can still speak truth to people who need to hear it. Cancer took my voice box. But my voice—the one that matters—is still loud and clear.

**You can’t silence someone who refuses to be quiet.** — Calvin Dodson

Two-Time Cancer Survivor Still Speaking —

*Have questions about living with a prosthetic voice or surviving cancer? Email me: the66voice@gmail.com*